


back at you

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, BAMF Derek Hale, BAMF Stiles, Developing Relationship, Drunken Confessions, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:25:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6239212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You remember that time you kissed a cow?" </p><p>Derek narrows his eyes, ignoring the way Stiles howls with laughter. "You remember that time you got shot <em>in the ass</em>?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	back at you

**Author's Note:**

> This is ... I don't know what this is, but Just Cause 3 was involved. Derek makes a great Rico Rodriguez - it's all in the bootay, and the stubble. 
> 
> Comment - Thank you so much! I don't know if I'll expand on this, but if I do, I'll do a flashback or something. This universe is basically based off of a video game, where there's a quiet war in Italy and the hero goes around freeing towns from the oppressive forces and destroying military bases with the rest of his rebels. Derek is the hero, obviously, and Stiles is a rebel that used to be a scientist, who developed mass weaponry for the General (who's Deucalion in this). I hope this helped, I'll edit and put this explanation in the notes - End Comment.
> 
> Apologies. Also, thanks for reading. Leave a kudos or a comment, very much appreciated!

Derek leans against the crumbling wall and sighs. The sun is hot, hot enough that he’s pretty uncomfortable in his uniform, which is already filthy, coated in a thick layer of grime and dirt. There’s a cut along the back of his knuckles that’s still leaking blood, and Derek is pretty sure that it’s going to get infected if he doesn’t get it cleaned soon. That’s nothing that he’s not already used to though; the amount of times that Derek has left his wounds untended is equal only to the amount of times that Stilinski bitches at him for not taking better care of himself. 

“We’re at war, Stiles,” Derek usually says, exasperated. “There’s no time for antiseptic wipes when I’m being shot at by a bunch of tanks.” To which Stiles scoffs and mutters on about how stupid Derek’s gonna look if he dies because of a cut on his toe as opposed to perishing heroically in a giant, fiery blaze of glory, all whilst he carefully bandages Derek’s cuts and bruises up with soft, quick fingers. 

There’s a crackle of noise, and Derek sighs again. 

“Stilinski, I swear to fucking God, if you don’t get out here now, I’m leaving the country. I hear England’s pretty peaceful these days.” 

“Keep your wig on,” comes the reply. Stiles sounds cheerful, suspiciously so, and the fact that Derek can’t see him - just hear him through a carefully placed radio - makes him extra wary, although he makes sure not to let it show. There are loads and loads of ancient ruins all over this part of town, and Stilinski knows his way around all of them with his eyes shut and his hands tied behind his back. This one, in particular, is a site that Derek hasn’t visited in a while, and therefore isn’t very familiar with. It wouldn’t surprise him to find that Stiles is lurking behind a broken pillar somewhere, waiting to jump out at him. The guy has an obsession with trying to scare Derek, and a long list of previous failed pranks to prove it. 

“I’ll have you know that this is all natural,” Derek says, swiping a hand through his short black hair. He grins when Stiles snorts, and then wipes the smile away in case Stiles bursts out of hiding and spots it. “Am I supposed to guess which lump of rock you’re cowering behind? I’ve got a few grenades left, I could always smoke you out.” 

“ _So dramatic._ Save those for the assholes that deserve it, big guy. Anyway, I’m not up here. I’m on the farm.”

Derek crosses his arms and raises his eyes heavenward. “You’re on a farm. You specifically gave me these coordinates and told me to come here as soon as possible, to meet you, and now you're on a farm. Any particular reason why you’re on a farm, or did something shiny distract you when you were driving?” 

“Not shiny, exactly,” Stiles says slyly, voice crackling slightly. “But I was definitely distracted. Come and meet me.” 

“For fucks sake, Stilinski,” Derek says, exasperated. Then he uncrosses his arms and hunts around the ruin until he finds the small speaker attached to one of the walls and rips it off, crushing it beneath one heavy boot and silencing Stiles’ voice. 

“This better be worth it,” Derek mutters as he climbs into his car (It's not actually his car - his car is at the bottom of a ravine somewhere, but this one will do for now). There’s a farm not half a mile from here, just past the gas station; that’s one thing that Derek loves about his home, the variety it offers, the big open spaces full of crops and willowy flowers, the small towns made up of crooked red buildings and ice cream shops. Beaches full of white sand and glassy blue sea, mountains that trawl all the way up to the clouds and the long, winding roads that Derek loves to race along, the smell of hot tarmac and grass and sea-spray billowing through the open windows, the sunshine making the leather seats hot. 

“Don’t be such a baby,” Stiles’ voice snaps out of Derek’s car radio, and Derek won’t admit that he jumps when he hears it. Stiles isn’t supposed to be able to use Derek’s radio – it’s a secure line – but Stiles can do things with technology that other people can only dream of. “It’s only down the road, and I’ve seen the fancy new car Lyd’s picked out for you. She said it was a wet dream on wheels.”

“No, she didn’t,” Derek says, rolling his eyes with a fond smile. 

There’s a pause, and then, “Okay, fine, she didn’t say that. I said that. I saw it when they brought it in. Scott and I did rock, paper, scissors to see who got to drive it out to you, and then Scott drove off with it anyway after he lost. Bastard. Are you there yet?” 

Derek makes a left turn and sighs. Sometimes talking to Stiles is like dealing with an impatient three-year-old. “No, Stiles. I’ll be there in a minute. Why are you slurring?”

A pause, and then a click as Stiles leaves the radio. Derek rolls his eyes. Exactly like a three-year-old. 

The farm looks pretty run-down, but Derek smells hot apple pie as he pulls into the driveway, and spots an open kitchen window. There’s a figure shifting about behind the curtain and Derek guesses that the farmers have just fallen on hard times, like a lot of people seem to be doing in Beacon.

“Shame,” he murmurs, slipping out of his car. They could use this place as a base. 

Stiles is easy to find; Derek just has to follow the sound of loud, illegal rock music all the way around the house, out the back and onto a dirt path that leads into the adjoining field. Lavender blossoms sway in the gentle wind. Derek pauses for a minute to watch the sun sink further down across the sky, and then heads towards the field. 

There’s a rust-red truck sat in the centre of the field. It’s wheels and a good five inches of the frame are caked with dried mud and the engine is running. Music blares out of the tiny radio inside. Both doors are wide open, and if Derek squints he can see Stilinski’s long, relaxed figure through the tinted windshield. 

“Quiet night, isn’t it?” Derek shouts, as he reaches the driver’s door. Stiles grins at him, lolls his head against the passenger seat and reaches for the dial on the radio. The music fades to background noise, and Derek sighs gratefully as he swings himself up onto the seat and slams the door behind him.

“Fucking dull, man,” Stiles says. He has an empty wine bottle in his hands, which he hastily stuffs out of sight. “Have to liven it up somehow, eh? Nothing better than a bit of music and an illegal street-race to get the blood pumping.”

“We are _not_ going street-racing,” Derek says, shaking his head emphatically. There’s nothing he loves more than driving, but he’s tired and dirty and he doesn’t feel like being chased by Deucalion’s men for the hundredth time that night. 

“I already went. I raced Scott here,” Stiles says, waving a hand dismissively. “ Besides, if we race now, we’ll burst the cargo. Then you’ll have a hundred angry rebels on your case, and I'll let them murder you.”

Derek is about to inquire, _casually_ , about the cargo, when Stiles looks up at him, eyes narrow and fixed on Derek. It stops Derek short. 

“Plus, you look like shit, Hale,” Stiles says. He says it pleasantly, but there’s an underlying layer of something tight in his tone, something that tells Derek that he’s upset. 

“Back at you, Stilinski,” Derek says, and then he collapses back against his seat. He’s lying, of course. Stiles is loose and long in the seat, wiry limbs tucked into spaces that they shouldn’t fit in. His face is smooth and pale, with a ruddy blush across the bridge of his nose from the glare of the sun. His hair looks soft and long enough to tug on, and his eyes wink like the last dregs of whiskey in a glass, illuminated by the setting sun. 

He’s beautiful. Derek has seen Stiles at his very worst, and he was no less beautiful then than he is now. He will always be beautiful, to Derek. 

Derek has seen Stiles beaten and bloody, every inch of his face puffy and bruised, blood trickling down his cheeks, inside a military base that he shouldn’t have been in. Derek has seen him stiff and silent, hands clenched over a remote that isn’t going to do anything, isn’t going to bring back the lives that Stiles accidentally handed to Deucalion on a poisonous silver platter. Derek has seen Stiles shout and scream and throw things, ripping at his hair in frustration as he tries to put back the pieces of a puzzle that he had unknowingly torn apart. 

Derek turns his head to look out of the windshield and swallows back his words, the ones he always wants to speak but doesn’t dare fall in Stiles’ presence. _It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know what you were doing. Deucalion tricked you, he was using you._

 _It wasn’t your fault._

Derek believes it, down to his bones. He knows that the weight of his mistakes presses heavily on Stiles’ mind, and he knows that, if it _weren’t_ Stiles, the pressure would be enough to make another man snap. But Stiles is strong and sweet and cunning and clever, fiercely loyal to a point and passionate. He can survive anything. 

“You’re bleeding,” Stiles says suddenly, sharply. “Give me that.” 

'That' turns out to be Derek’s hand, which Stiles snatches away from the leather steering wheel and holds up to his face in order to inspect. The cut across his knuckle has stopped bleeding, but it’s surrounded by so much tacky blood that it’s hard to tell. 

“It’s fine,” Derek says, although he makes no move to tug his hand away. He likes the feel of Stiles’ fingers against his aching skin. He even likes the glare that Stiles levels at him, a sure sign that he’s in too deep. 

“It’s not fine,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. He digs around in the space beside his feet and pulls out a half-eaten bag of candy, a clump of unidentifiable wires and a plastic first aid kit. He rests Derek’s hand in his lap, gently, and then searches through the first aid kit, muttering under his breath as he pulls out antiseptic wipes and bandages. One of the bandages spills onto the floor, and Stiles swears. Derek steals a piece of candy and lets him work. 

“You know that Lydia’s going to inject you with about a thousand different serums when we get back, don’t you?” 

Derek rolls his eyes and says, teasingly, “I’m not the one that’s afraid of a little pain.”

“It’s not the pain,” Stiles protests, “It’s the needle. Forgive me for not wanting to get stabbed if I can help it.” 

“As someone who has _actually_ been stabbed, I can tell you that an injection is nothing compared to it.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes. “Yes, yes, Mr I’ve-ridden-a-missile-and-you-haven’t, we all know how badass you are. Don’t forget though, I know some of your lesser badass moments.” 

Derek glares at him. Stiles looks up and winks, and then swipes an antiseptic wipe across Derek’s knuckle. He cleans the whole hand thoroughly, brisk but still careful, and then moves up to Derek’s wrist. Derek lets him work, lets him swap hands and then move back to his injured knuckle and tenderly wrap a soft bandage around it, mindful of his bruised fingers. 

The last rays of sunlight filter through the open door, and the music changes to something softer and less loud, less angry, less rebellious. It feels like an ordinary, quiet night, like a piece of somebody else’s life, a chapter from somebody else’s book. Like two people, two friends, that aren’t fighting a war that they might not win, that aren’t bruised and a bit broken, hiding out in their own home. 

“You remember that time when you kissed a cow?”

And then Stiles goes and ruins it. 

Derek sighs explosively and bats Stiles over the head with his free hand. “You fucking made me kiss a cow,” he snaps, whilst Stiles howls with laughter and dodges Derek’s slaps. “That was your fault. And why do you have to bring it up all the fucking time?”

“Because it’s hilarious,” Stiles says, wiping his eyes with a grin. “You kissed a cow. And it’s my job to remind you of it, so that you know that you’re not just a massive hero, you’re also a massive dickhead too. A ridiculous one.” 

Derek arches an eyebrow and says, drily, “Oh really? Remember that time you got shot in the ass?”

Stiles stops laughing abruptly and scowls. 

“That was pretty ridiculous,” Derek says, smirking. 

Stiles hisses, “That was a serious incident. Any further up and I could have been paralysed, so laugh it up, Hale. _Paralysed_ , as in, never walk again.” 

“And I would have cried myself to sleep every night,” Derek says solemnly, hand on his heart. Stiles mutters something unflattering under his breath and snatches Derek’s hand back so that he can finish bandaging it. He ties off the end, tucks the knot out of sight and then hauls himself out of the trunk without warning. 

Derek frowns and pokes his head out of his window. “What are you doing now? I thought we had a mission. I need to debrief Lydia, too, before she bites my head off about the car.” 

Stiles jumps into the back of the trunk, where the cargo is, and then peers at Derek suspiciously. “What happened to the car?” A bee ambles into the side of his head and Stiles jerks back with a yelp. Derek snorts, rolls his eyes as Stiles swats at the bee before ducking down amongst the barrels. 

“You didn’t answer me,” Stiles says, popping back up and hauling himself over the side of the truck. He lands easily in the dirt, crushing several sprigs of lavender beneath his ratty sneakers. The air is cooler now that the sun’s gone down, and Stiles shivers in his thin shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “What happened to the car?”

He clambers back into the passenger seat, a red glass bottle clutched in his hands. Derek raises an eyebrow at the drink, but says nothing. 

“Earth to Derek fucking Hale.”

Derek looks back up. “What?”

Stiles slams the door and rolls his eyes. Then he digs a pocket-knife out of his pocket and thumbs through it until he finds the corkscrew function. He wrestles with the bottle until the cork explodes with a pop and foam bursts over the sides. Stiles sighs and licks it off of his fingers, and Derek reaches for the steering wheel immediately, to stop himself from reaching out, to distract himself. 

“I’m driving,” Derek announces, voice a little lower than he would like. “Buckle up or go through the windshield, it’s up to you.”

“So it’s bad, then,” Stiles says. He takes a long pull from his drink and then nestles the bottle between his knees. “Whatever you did to that beautiful car is bad, like, running-from-Lydia levels of bad.”

“Everything is running-from-Lydia levels of bad,” Derek says, thinking of the cool, displeased expression that’s bound to be plastered all over the scientist’s face when he gets back. 

“I can’t believe you’re scared of her,” Stiles says cheerfully, taking another long gulp of wine. “She’s tiny. You’ve taken out tanks, military bases, driven a helicopter into the side of a cliff and sat through two hours of Scott McCall after his break-up with Allison, but it’s Lydia that you’re scared of.” 

“Everyone is scared of Lydia,” Derek says, pulling out of the farm. Stiles yelps and slams his door shut, looking reprovingly at Derek before taking another large gulp of wine. His cheeks are already a little red.

“She does have access to a worryingly large amount of explosives,” Stiles says thoughtfully. He yelps again as Derek rounds a tight corner, and something in the back of the truck smashes into pieces. “Drive slower, you maniac!” Stiles yells, and Derek rolls his eyes and eases off the accelerator. 

“Jeez,” Stiles says, adjusting his position in his seat. He has one hand gripped around the panic bar and the other holding his bottle tightly. Derek watches as he drains most of it in one go, wincing. 

“You’re going to get really drunk, really quickly,” Derek observes. “You know you can’t hold your liqueur.” 

Stiles shrugs and sets the empty bottle aside, tapping his fingers against the dashboard. “That’s what tonight’s about. Getting drunk, man. What do you think the truck’s full of?” 

“Alcohol that we aren’t supposed to have?” Derek hazards a guess. 

“The finest alcohol in Beacon,” Stiles says proudly. “It’s from Deucalion’s personal stock, and it is our solemn duty to drink all of it. Well, I’m going to drink all of it, and you’re going to drive us to the base. Safely. Without breaking the precious cargo. And without any detours off of a cliff.” 

“That was one time,” Derek mutters, but he dutifully slows down to a more respectable, boring speed. “Where did you get your hands on this stuff?” 

“Another scientist defected,” Stiles says. There’s pride and guilt in his voice. Pride, that he’s inspired more of Deucalion’s inner circle to grow up and get a grip, and guilt that he was ever on Deucalion’s side at all. “He managed to get a message to Scott about a guy who’s been pretty instrumental in supplying Deucalion’s men with whatever they want or need. Scott took the guy prisoner, and now we have access to pretty much anything.” 

“So, your first port of call was alcohol?” Derek asks, deadpan. 

“Naturally,” Stiles smirks. 

Stiles steadily gets more and more drunk as Derek navigates the back roads of farmland, mindful of the dark and the people wandering about, enjoying their new-found freedom. Beacon is a relatively large town, the first one that was completely freed by the rebels. There have been no attempts to overtake it again, probably because Derek’s spent the better part of the last few weeks driving Deucalion’s men out of the surrounding areas, and taking down the main cent com nearby. 

No more cannons, no more tanks, just blue paint and a raised flag, music and laughter and people swimming on the beaches again. 

Derek smiles as he drives slowly past a group of people laughing, a child hanging onto her parent’s hand, a grin lighting up her small, round face. Once he passes by, he glances over at Stiles, whose intense gaze is noticeable even in the semi-darkness. 

“What’s that look for?” Derek asks. His voice is soft and quiet. 

Stiles’ mouth quirks up at the corners. “You.” 

Derek forces his eyes on the road, and clears his throat. “Me?” 

Stiles just keeps smiling. 

“Care to elaborate on that?” 

“Not really,” Stiles says, slurring slightly. “I’m tipsy, see, so I’ll end up going on and on about how pretty you look like that, even when you’re all dirty. ‘Specially when you’re all dirty.”

Derek wills away a blush. He’s supposed to be cool, collected, but Stiles has always had a way of stripping all of that down.

“Back at you,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles makes an interesting noise.

"Might even mention something else, too," Stiles says sloppily. "Might mention that I really like your face, and I hate when you get all cut up like this. Might even say that I lo - "

Derek pulls into a parking space with a screech of metal. The town is mostly quiet, but it’s still busy, people strolling along the cobbled streets, heels clicking, hair swaying in the wind, laughter echoing off the walls of the little local shops. Someone, somewhere, it playing an accordion, badly. He glances out of the car and spots a sea of blue uniforms – discarded helmets, guns lying prone on the ground, goggles left abandoned on the steps of the church – all gathered underneath the rebel flag, which flies high. 

“I don’t think I broke too many bottles,” Derek says, purposely avoiding Stiles’ gaze. “And the barrels are probably all intact. I can see Scott, and Lahey. No sign of Lydia.” 

“Luckily for you,” Stiles says, a little hoarsely. “Hale.” 

Derek still doesn’t look at him. He can feel his pulse beating harshly in his wrists, in his throat, and he doesn’t know why. 

“Derek.” 

Derek swallows and turns around. 

Stiles kisses him. He leans in over the gearstick and gets his hands in Derek’s hair, tugging as he sucks on Derek’s bottom lip. His mouth is warm, then hot, and nothing about this is gentle, but it isn’t a rough kiss either. It feels inevitable, like waves crashing against a shore, like stars blinking into view. It was always going to happen. Derek fumbles for his seatbelt and unbuckles it, and now that he’s free to move he puts his hands on Stiles’ waist and hauls him into his lap, situating him carefully. Stiles makes a noise of approval, humming against Derek’s mouth and then gasping when Derek slides his hands under Stiles’ shirt. 

Stiles tastes like spiced wine. He smells like lavender, and soap, and his skin is soft. There’s a scar on his hip, long and puckered. His lips are a little chapped, but Derek doesn’t care. 

He pulls back, dazed. “You’re not too drunk, are you?” 

Stiles grins back, kisses his cheek, then the tip of his nose. “I’m sober enough for this. I’m not that much of a lightweight.” 

Derek smirks. “Agree to disagree, Stilinski.” 

Stiles narrows his eyes and leans in to bite at Derek’s lip. 

It feels like hours later when they break away, but the moon is no closer to the sky, and the sea is still and – 

And Scott’s grinning face is pressed against the window. 

Derek jerks so hard that he bashes his head against Stiles’ nose, and Stiles squawks and falls backwards. Only Derek’s grip on his waist stops him from colliding with the dashboard. They both glare at Scott, but his expression only gets brighter. He gives them both a thumbs-up through the window, which Stiles returns before flipping him off. Scott’s face morphs into an exaggerated frown, and then he points to them both, mouths something that looks like _finally_ , and then turns to shout at the rest of the group, beckoning them over. 

“We better get out,” Derek murmurs, although he wants nothing more than to curl up with Stiles in a backseat somewhere and kiss the life out of him. 

Stiles brushes a finger over Derek’s lip and then draws back reluctantly. Then he moves back in and kisses him once, twice, and a third time. “Now we can get out,” Stiles says decisively. His lips are red and full and he grins mischievously. “You still have to face Lydia’s wrath, and I still have a mountain of alcohol to drink. Can’t shirk my duties, now, can I?” 

Derek groans, digs his fingers into Stiles’ sides, and then drops him out of the car. Stiles lands on his back in the dirt with a thud and a yell, swearing violently. 

Derek grins – it’s a good day.

**Author's Note:**

> Any good? Thank you for reading, hope you all liked it!


End file.
